Spraying Glitter
by CupcakeSprinkles14
Summary: EASTER ONE-SHOT! When Clove convinced Cato to go to a strip club, he had been reluctant. But once he lays eyes upon glittered showered dancer 'Loverboy', his opinions on the practice is completely altered. He just hoped he had his bank card with him. He was going to be visiting the ATM a lot.


**A/N: This is a one-shot that I had originally been working on for St. Patrick's day but didn't get done in time. So I continued it on until Easter! Even if you don't celebrate the holiday, enjoy anyway! :D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

**Spraying Glitter**

Cato had never been a fan of strip clubs. He always thought it was a frivilous practice that people who could get a job used to get the money they needed to live. Some of thm actually considered it a proper occupation. Wow, yeah, some job. Taking clothes off for money, sounds so trying and difficult(!)

But Clove was getting married and she wanted to go to a strip club for her hen-do. All her friends weren't available for the date she set, thinking that she should have her party the night before her actual wedding. Cato thought that would be pretty stupid since if she drank as much as she had said she wanted to, then if she had it on the day before the wedding, wouldn't she be hung over? Her friends were idiots at the best of times. So that was how he wound up going to the strip club with her the week before.

First impression of the club? Not too bad. The music could be heard pumping from outside and was incredibly loud inside. Most of the people inside were women, mostly because it was a male dancer night. As a gay man, Cato thought he should have been okay with seeing all these scantly dressed men grinding and stripping but it just wasn't doing it for him.

One slightly unorthodox thing about this specific club was that every dancer had a talent. Some sang, some danced, one even did yo-yo tricks. In fact, Cato was more interested in the talents than he was on the fact that they were doing these things with barely any clothes on.

Clove was in her element. She fit in perfectly with all the extroverted women who cheered at the dancers and shoved money into any available piece of clothing (which was pretty limited, if they were being honest). Cato let her do her thing, since it was her hen party after all, and topped up the drinks every so often.

During an interval, Clove sat down for what felt like the first time since they actaully entered the place. "Thanks for coming with me, Cato," she said, wiping the sweat off her forehead. "I really appreciate it. I don't even think my girls would have came here if I had have had the party the day before. I mean, I don't think it's in their range of standard."

"It's no bother Clove, really," Cato told her. "If I hadn't came here I probably would have spent the night wallowing in my house eating a giant tube of Caramel Chew-Chew ice-cream."

"Cookie dough is better and you know it," Clove chuckled. She stuck her hand into her pocket and frowned when it came back empty. "Damn, I'm going to have to visit the ATM."

"These places have ATMs?!" Cato exclaimed, sitting up straight and looking behind him to look for the supposed ATM. Gosh, the club really made sure you had as much fun as possible, don't they? "How much have you spent anyway?"

"Hundred and fifty," Clove answered.

"What?!"

"What?" Clove repeated. "That's not bad! I saw a girl stick a hundred alone down that Finnick guy's g-string!" Cato considered this, knowing that she was right. Compared to how much some of these girls were spending, one hundred and fifty really wasn't that bad. "Will you get us some drinks while I top up my wallet?"

"Sure thing," Cato said, heaving himself off the seat and heading to the bar. On his way there another dancer came on so the girls flocked to the stage. Cato was thankful for this, as it cleared the bar right up. The bartender was the guy who made nearly all of the girls orgasm when he danced. Didn't Clove say his name was Finnick? Cato could see how he was attractive to others, with his bronze hair and defined torso, but he wasn't Cato's type. Then again, _strippers_ weren't Cato's type.

Even when not doing their routines, the dancers seemed to be expected to wear provocative clothes all the time. This Finnick guy was wearing nothing but baby blue underpants with vibrant yellow elastic. "Hello handsome, what can I get you?" he said, his voice a deep purr.

Cato tried not to snicker, knowing that this was the guy's job he would be laughing at. "Vodka and coke and a beer," he said, trying to keep a straight face.

Finnick grinned and winked, turning away to prepare the drinks. As he did this, Cato glanced back to where his and Clove's table, where his friend was currently biting a cherry out from between a guy's teeth. Cato chuckled and shook his head. She really was shameless.

While he was watching, something caught his eye. A boy was sitting with a group of women near the back of the club. Either he had really provocative fashion sense or was one of the dancers as all he wore was a black backless hoodie, a pair of tight fitting boxer briefs and black lace-up boots with neon orange laces. The hood was up, obscuring most of his face, but from what Cato could see, he seemed to be blushing, a small shy smile gracing his features.

The women weren't shy, their hands touching every available piece of bare skin. This was probably why the boy was blushing so much. They seemed to be talking about something hilarious, as they were all wearing big smiles, looking like a pack of chesire cats. Then again, maybe that was more because of the fact that they were able to grope the attractive boy they were talking to without having to be ashamed.

"£8:50," Finnick said, snapping him out of his staring. Cato turned back around, not realizing that he had been staring until he had been snapped out of it. Finnick was grinning, like he knew exactly what he was thinking. "I see you've got your eye on Loverboy," he said, nodding his head back in the group's direction.

"I thought at these clubs you're supposed to look, not touch?" Cato asked.

"Well, depends on the person. It really isn't that bad unless they're going to try and do something inappropriate," Finnick explained. "Although, Loverboy still needs to adjust to how handsy these women really are." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "He's a little shy, bless him."

Why would a shy boy become a stripper?

"He's going to be onstage soon," Finnick told him. "You _have_ to stick around to see his show."

Cato decided he would do just that.

When he returned to Clove, she was smirking at him. "What?" he asked as he handed her her drink.

"Flirting, were we?" she asked.

"What? With him?" Cato asked back, jerking his thumb in Finnick's direction. "You've got to be joking." Clove didn't look convinced but rolled her eyes, not bothering to try and push the point. Cato's eyes drifted to her hand, where the cherry was still sitting. While the current dancer finished their routine, Cato glanced behind himself, his interest peaking when he saw that Loverboy was gone.

The blushing boy took up all his thoughts, he couldn't help wondering what the boy's talent was going to be and why Finnick suggested he stayed to see it. Was it going to be common? Unique? Something he'd never seen done before?

Loverboy came onstage shortly after the third dancer since the interval. He'd changed clothes since Cato last saw him with the women. He still wore a hoodie, but one of different style to the backless one. It was grey with ripped short sleeves and was high cut, ending just below the young boy's pectrocals to exhibit his pale stomach. A pair of black stretchy gym shorts were low slung and extremely tight. He was coated in glitter, like he had bathed in it before he came out, the sequins sparkling on his ivory skin like tiny diamonds.

He was greeted by loads of clapping and squealing, Clove shoving her fingers into her mouth and doing a wolf whistle, a talent that still baffled Cato to this day. The women from earlier were especially load and Cato could swear he could see Loverboy's cheeks turn pink in embarrassment. It was actually quite cute.

Curious as to what his talent was, Cato watched Loverboy carefully. The young boy produced a cherry stem, holding it up for everyone to see. A spotlight homed in on the stem, the bright light making Loverboy blink in surprise. The white bulb's glow made his blue eyes sparkle and Cato couldn't take his own eyes off the boy.

Loverboy put the stem into his mouth and sealed his lips shut. He started moving his tongue around inside his mouth, doing something Cato couldn't figure out to the stem. While he did this, he heaved himself up onto the stripper pole that sat in the middle of the stage. Cato couldn't help staring at the dancer's thighs as they clenched to keep him up on the pole as he let go with his hands and let himself fall, hanging from the pole like a child from a jungle gym.

How could someone's legs keep them up on a pole without giving out? It would take extreme strength and effort. Cato's mouth hung open as Loverboy grabbed the pole with his hands again and slowly slid down it until the tip of his red wedge sneaker skimmed the floor. He dipped backwards, throwing his arm over his head and hanging on with only one.

Cato couldn't keep his eyes off the boy's body as he did his routine. He was unbelieveably flexible and his movements were smooth and sexy. The stretchy shorts hugged what had to be the most perfect bubble butt he had ever seen before in his entire life, tightening and tugging with every movement the dancer made. The way he danced and grinded against the pole made Cato want to drag him off into one of the private dance rooms and fuck him blind. It felt like Loverboy knew the effect he was having on him and was teasing him personally, especially when he'd hook his thumb into the shorts and pull them down just the slightest of bits to show off his hipbones or the way his eyes rolled behind his head in an almost ectasy like state whenever he'd press his back against the pole and let it rub up and down the cleft of his ass whenever he moved.

At the very end, Loverboy slut dropped, sliding his back down the pole until he reached the floor, and crawled to the edge of the stage on his hands and knees. Cato had almost forgotten about the cherry stem in the boy's mouth but was astounded-along with most of the other clubbers-when he opened wide and stuck his tongue out, producing the stem. It was knotted into a tight figure eight knot, sitting neatly in the middle of his pretty, pink tongue.

He did that with just his mouth?!

"Fuck, that was different. I wonder what else he could do with that tongue," Clove commented, looking almost stunned. She took in Cato's expression and chuckled. "I haven't seen your face like that since I told you to watch Two girls One Cup."

"I wonder what his real name is," Cato wondered.

"_That's_ what you're wondering after _that_ performance?!"

_No, I'm actually wondering how far I could get those bendy legs to stretch if I were to ever fuck him._

Clove smirked. "I'm totally getting that kid to give you a lap dance when he comes back out."

Cato snorted. "Yeah, no thanks Clove," he said. "I'm alright. I don't like strippers, remember?"

His friend wasn't having it. She shook her head drunkly. "Nah-uh dickwad, you're getting a dance from cherry-boy even if it means I have to pay for it."

"Um, I actually think it's Loverboy," Cato corrected. He laughed when Clove scowled and smacked him. "What? I'm pretty sure that's his name!"

Clove grabbed her drink and took a large gulp. "At least let me get him to sit in your lap," she insisted. "You need to loosen up! Plus cherry-boy is the only dancer tonight who gave you a boner!"

"No he didn't!" Cato exclaimed.

"Bullshit Hadley, your dick woke up from hibernation the moment that kid stuck the stem into his mouth." Clove cracked up at her own joke, her jerking shoulders causing the vodka to spill out over the edges of her glass. "About time too, how many cobwebs are down there now? A billion?"

"You finished yet?" Cato asked.

Clove chewed on the inside of her cheek in deep thought. "Um, yeah, sure," she said. "No! Wait, I've got one. Your life has been so sexless, your dick has started it's own mini protest. _'What do we want?'_ 'Hot ass!' _'Who do we want it from?' _ Cherry-boy!"

"Uh . . . Loverboy," Cato corrected.

"Okay, okay, whatever," Clove replied. "_Lover_boy then."

None of the dancers that followed Loverboy had that big an impact. Cato kept wondering when he'd see the blond beauty again and what he would be doing when he did. Would he go back to those women? Or would Clove intervene first . . . The latter sounded like the best option.

Forty five minutes after his act, Loverboy stumbled out of the door beside the stage. He had changed back into his backless hoodie but his underwear was a different colour. It was pink with a dark purple waistband and two stripes up the side. The blond boy straightened himself out but seemed keen to walk along the wall and stay pressed against it.

"Ooh! There he is!" Clove said. "Hey, Loverboy, over here!" She started waving like a maniac. She was so drunk she almost fell out of her seat trying to get his attention. In fact, when she stumbled and ended up hanging over the arm of the chair was what caught the dancer's attention in the first place.

Loverboy smiled and took a deep breath, moving away from the wall and holding his arms out slightly while he walked. Cato looked around Clove's seat curiously to see why he was walking so funny. His question was answered by the height of the red, sparkly wedge sneakers he had on his feet. He almost made it right across, too, but he went over on his ankle and tripped. He yelped and grabbed the arm of Clove's chair, saving himself from falling on his face.

"Whoa," Clove said, holding her hands up as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn't have been. "Eager, are we?"

"Sorry," Loverboy quickly said, getting his balance and straightening his hoodie. "I haven't gotten used to these shoes yet. I can dance with them, but can't seem to get the hang of walking with them on."

"Your dancing was awesome," Clove slurred. She reached out and tapped his cheek like a grandmother praising her grandson. "My, My friend her," she said drunkly, pointing at Cato but missing the direction by a couple of inches. She blinked and redirected her finger. "His name is Cato and he, he was wondering if you would do the-" She did raised her arms above her head, pressing her palms together and did a doggy on the dashboard type thing with her head-"for him."

Loveryboy raised his eyebrows. "The what?" he asked.

"Ignore her, she's drunk," Cato quickly said.

"I will give you a hundred bucks if you sit in my friend her's lap," Clove said. She produced her money just to prove the point. Loverboy's eyes narrowed at the sight of the money. He glanced at Cato uneasily. Clove looked at Cato as well. "Come on, don't be a prude!" She grinned at Loverboy and whisper-hissed, "You woke up his dick."

"Clove!" Cato exclaimed.

Loverboy blushed, tugging the hood over his face shyly. "I won't do anything he doesn't want, no matter how much you offer me."

Clove grinned. "Trust me Loverboy, he _wants_ this." She winked to emphasize the point.

Loverboy looked at Cato curiously, the darkness caused by his hood masking most of his face. Cato wanted to know what his face looked like, what colour his eyes were. Did he have prominant cheekbones? Did his eyelashes match his hair? Did the skin tone of his face match that of the rest of his body? "Do you?" he asked, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.

Going against better judgement and his morals, Cato gave in and nodded.

"Ha!" Clove cackled truimphantly. "I'm right!" She tugged Loverboy closer by the front of his hoodie and tucked the hundred into his pocket. She stood up and whispered as she passed, "I'll give you an extra hundred if you wake up his dick again."

Cato was horrified by his friend's behaviour but knew he should have seen it coming, especially since he knew how Clove could get when she was intoxicated. When she disappeared to the bar, Loverboy wobbled in his shoes over to where Cato sat. "Um," he said. "How do you want me to . . .?"

"I suppose you just . . ." Cato scratched the back of his head. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't think Clove thought this through when she started volunteering me for stuff."

"I'm sorry, I know I should know this," Loverboy said. "I'm just sort of new to it . . ."

"No, it's fine," Cato said.

Loverboy smiled sheepishly and tugged his hood further down. "I'll . . . I'll just . . . I'm just gonna . . ." He opted with just straddling Cato and sitting on his lap. Cato could tell he was trying to sit as lightly as he possibly could, not putting any of his weight onto his lap. Cato was sort of glad for this as, even though it hadn't even been that long, Loverboy's presence alone had already woken his dick back up and he didn't want the boy to feel it.

"Where should-Where should I put my hands?" Cato asked.

Loverboy's lips quirked into a timid smile. "Where ever you want to put them, I suppose. You can touch me where you like with your hands, but no mouth. N-Not that I'd expect you to try and _use_ your mouth but I have to say it so you're aware . . . I'm going to shut up now, you're not here to listen to me."

Cato let his hands rest on the small of Loverboy's back. His skin was warm and he had to resist the urge to run them further up to feel the muscles under his hands. "Well, Clove was the one who roped you into sitting here, I don't mind listening to you. What's your real name?"

"What's it to you?"

"I prefer not to call you Loverboy?" Cato wanted to run his fingers over Loverboy's lips as they were the only part of his face he could see and they looked so soft. "And the title is kind of demeaning, don't you think?"

"I'm . . . I'm Peeta," Loverboy answered. "But if you don't like that name you call me whatever you like."

"No," Cato said. "Peeta. I like it."

Peeta bit his bottom lip, folding it into his mouth to suck on as he seemed to be thinking about something. Cato found himself feeling jealous of that bottom lip, wanting to take it between his teeth and nibble on it. "Is there anything you want me to do? It's just if my boss comes along, he mightn't be too happy unless I'm dancing or something . . . "

"Well, what would you normally do?" Cato asked.

Peeta shrugged. "Well, it depends on the person," he said. "People want different things. Some like to be teased, others just want a grope. I don't mind, as long as I get my money."

Cato's fingers curled instinctively, suddenly aware of the wad of his own money in his back pocket, he wondered what he could pay Peeta to do for him. Wow, he didn't think he'd be wondering that earlier in the day. But saying that you could what you like for money . . . wasn't that close to prostitution? Wasn't that why there was always the no touch rule in stripper clubs?

"This club is a bit different from the others, isn't it?" Cato found himself asking.

Peeta knawed on his bottom lip, the shadow shrouding his eyes making Cato want to just grab the back of the hood and yank it down to them properly. "It's not that different," he said. "The clothes are a bit different, you wouldn't see the dancers a couple of streets away wearing ordinary clothes, they dress up like police men, doctors, fire men ectera."

He was missing the point. How cute.

"How far does this club's policy let you dancers go before it's considered . . . you know, inappropriate?" Cato asked.

"Intercourse, blowjobs, handjobs and fingering are all prohibited," Peeta explained.

"Well damn, there's my night gone," Cato joked. Peeta laughed, his laugh sounding like beautiful music. Cato immediately loved his laugh and wanted to hear it again. What would he have to do to make it come back? "So literally anything inbetween is alright with your . . . 'boss'?"

Peeta shifted in Cato's lap, letting himself relax a little bit so that his weight pressed a little bit into his lap. "Yeah," he answered. "Although I don't allow hands on my crotch. Anywhere else is fine, just not there. Is . . . Is that alright?"

"Oh yeah, of course, whatever you're comfortable with," Cato said. He found his eyes drifting to Peeta's lips again, a thought coming into his head. "Does that mean people can kiss you and stuff?"

"Normally people don't ask so many questions, you know," Peeta pointed out, sounding slightly sheepish about discussing his job. Wait . . . when did Cato start considering stripping a job? "But . . . yes. Mouth only." The dancer cocked his head curiously. "Why? Is that what you want?"

Why was he so close to saying yes? Only an hour ago Cato had believed that stripping was a useless practice occupied by jobless morons and yet now he was seriously contemplating tugging the boy in his lap closer to him by his shirtfront and kissing him senseless. How could someone have such an effect on him? He couldn't even make eye contact with this boy for god's sake because he kept his face covered, so why in the hell was he dying to kiss him?

"No, it's okay," Cato forced himself to say. He wasn't going to give in so easily. He had more questions to ask anyway. "How long would you stay with a given person?"

"If they pay the standard amount, then I'm theirs until the end of the song playing," Peeta explained. "But if they give more money by the end of the song or have pre-paid a grand amount then I'd stay much longer. Only people don't pre-pay often, unless they want to go into the private room."

"The private . . . room?"

"Yeah. Unless it's part of their rountine on stage, the private room would be where the dancers would strip for a patron. It's private because only one patron can be in there at a time and because the dancers would be nude, obviously, and some don't want a hundred eyes on them when they're naked."

Cato quirked an eyebrow. "Sounds like you're talking from experience. Have you ever been to the private room?"

Peeta nodded. "Once," he said. He shivered at the memory. "I didn't care for it."

"What happened?"

"Nothing too bad. The guy was just a pervert and tried to penetrate me with his finger while I was dancing for him. I smacked him though, which was quite fun, and Snow banned him from here. What I don't understand is how people can't see the difference between stripping and prostition. We're here to dance for people, not be vessels for sick, sexual desires," Peeta ranted.

Cato hung onto every word that came out of the boy's mouth. "Maybe he got the wrong idea? What exactly were you doing?"

What he could see of Peeta's face turned pink with embarrassment. "He was . . . I let him . . . uh . . . it's difficult to explain, really. It's a stragetic move that I haven't even got a name for yet."

"Show me it then," Cato said.

Peeta shook his head. "I don't do it anywhere but the private room."

"Let's go to the private room then."

"It costs money, you know."

"How much?"

"£50 extra."

Cato nodded. "No problem," he said. "Take me to the private room."

~xXx~

The move _was_ strategic. But Peeta executed it like he'd done it a thousand times before. It started with him sitting in Cato's lap, then he bended backwards-his body bending like it was made out of rubber-so his hands touched the floor. He flipped around so he was facing away from Cato and spread his legs so he could hook them around the back of the chair so he was pinned between the back of the chair and his legs.

Fuck, it was hot.

Cato fought to keep himself under control, to hide his increasing lust for the boy wrapped around him. The tight boxer briefs hugged him in all the right ways and Cato really wanted to touch him, to hear what his moans would sound like, but most of all to see his face.

"I haven't done this in ages," Peeta said, shifting a little bit to get himself comfortable. Cato watched the muscles in the dancer's back shift and contract as he moved. "I'm a little stiff."

_Want me to loosen you up a little bit baby?_

Whoa, the last time he heard his slut voice, he had been in his last year of college and was developing an intense crush on the boy across the hall. Basically, the slut voice would speak lustful thoughts in his mind when in the presence of someone hot or attractive.

"After this I'd basically, you know, sit back up," Peeta explained. He pulled himself back up, running his hands up Cato's legs as he did so, in a way that was so sensual Cato shivered in want. Why did everything this boy did affect him so greatly? Peeta sat in Cato's lap, almost nervously. "I don't suppose you're regretting spending fifty quid just for this . . ."

On the contrary, Cato was feeling quite the opposite. He was actually struggling to resist the urge to lean forward and kiss Peeta's bare back. The exposed skin looked like it would feel perfect under his lips. What would it taste like if he dared to taste him? While fighting through his inner termoil, Cato spotted a scar across Peeta's shoulder blade. How had he not noticed that before?

"Where did you get the scar?" Cato asked.

"Huh?" Peeta asked back, having seemed to have snapped out of something.

Cato traced his finger along the pink mark that seemed to rip across the dancer's back. "This scar, where did you get it?"

Peeta rolled his arms, making the scar roll with the muscles in his shoulders. "It's just a birthmark. I was supposed to cover it up but I didn't have any time tonight."

"Why would you cover it up?"

"Because it's an imperfection?"

"And that's a bad thing . . . ?"

Peeta shrugged. "It can be," he said. "People have expectations and we have to meet those expectations. Not that I'm complaining, a job's a job." He glanced over his shoulder at Cato curiously, quirking an inquizzitive eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want a dance?"

_Oh god yes!_ "Are you uncomfortable just sitting there or something? And here's me thinking my lap was a very hospititable environment," Cato joked. A vague attempt at hiding what he truly felt.

Peeta laughed. "Well, it's definitely comfortable." He wiggled a bit where he sat, unaware that he was rubbing Cato up the wrong way. Cato shut his eyes and bit his lip, swallowing a moan he felt bubbling up at the back of his throat. "But it can get boring, just sitting here." A pause. "Sorry, I have ADHD tendancies. It's one of the reasons I got into this business."

Cato tilted his head, knowing exactly what he wanted Loverboy to do. "Will you pull down your hood for me?"

"Why do you want me to pull down my hood?" Peeta instantly asked. His voice was closed off, defensive.

"Because I want to see what your eyes look like," Cato answered honestly.

"So does everyone," Peeta replied. "At first."

"What do you mean at first?"

The dancer jumped off his lap, playing urgency. "I think the song just ended! Well, nice to meet you, ah, Cato. I'll maybe see you around, yeah?"

Cato quickly opened his wallet and pulled out whatever he had left. Peeta's head turned to stare at the money, almost transfixed. "There's at least one hundred and fifty here," Cato said. "Stay, please?"

"Excuse me, are you trying to abuse my weakness for money?" Peeta asked defensively. He folded his arms and cocked his hip, a pose of pure sass. "You think I'm going to just fall to my knees and worship you because you've got money and I don't?"

"Well, I wouldn't say worship, more like just stay and show me what your eyes look like," Cato shrugged. Now that he had said it, he was all the more keen to see what the boy's eyes looked like. "Why are you so reluctant?"

Peeta fiddled with his fingers, crossing and un-crossing his ankles anxiously. "Because . . . because . . . I'm a little bit . . ."

Cato straightened up and frowned curiously. "A little bit what?"

A long pause. "I'm a little bit . . . _younger_ than what most people are expecting."

"How much younger?"

Peeta knawed on his bottom lip before answering. "I'm seventeen."

Cato's eyes widened. "_Seventeen?_ Holy Moses, does your mother know that you're out right now? It's nearly two in the morning!"

"Ha ha, like I haven't heard that one before," Peeta muttered, sounding thoroughly irritated. "You know when they find out what age I am, more than half of my gay patrons ask for that ABBA song for me to dance to?" Cato snickered, unable to hide his amusement. "It's not funny!"

"Come on, it kind of is," Cato said. For Peeta's sake, he was trying not to laugh. His age was obviously a sensitive topic. But come on, seventeen? Was someone of seventeen even allowed out this late? What would bring a seventeen year old to the decision to strip for a living?

"Oh no, I know that look," Peeta said, "don't start the whole 'there has to be something wrong for him to be doing this at such a young age' thing! Before you ask, there's no tragic backstory, no horrifying reason that brought me to do this, it's easy money and it's fun, that's why I do it."

Cato raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's good to hear." He stood up and stepped toward Peeta, stopping when he took a step back. "Okay, I know that you're young now, why can't you pull the hood down?"

"What if you don't like what you see?" Peeta asked quietly. "I'm not like Finnick or any of the other dancers."

"I think I can be the judge of that."

"Oh can you now?"

"Well, yeah." Even if he couldn't see the dancer's eyes, Cato could swear that Peeta just rolled them irritably. "The guy who was manning the bar said that you're shy. What sort of shy boy becomes a stripper?"

"What sort of person gives a stripper money but doesn't want them to dance?" Peeta threw back. "And I'm not_ shy_! Who told you that? Was it Finnick? I bet it was Finnick. I'm not shy at all! I could strip naked right now and it wouldn't hinder me! I've let people do shots off my body without even breaking a sweat! The hood is just to hide my age! If I could choose, I wouldn't wear it!"

Cato quirked an eyebrow. "Then take it off." An evil part of himself was enjoying winding Peeta up. He was very cute when he was mad.

"I will then!"

"Go on then."

"Fine!"

"Fine."

Peeta reached up and ripped the hood down from his face. "Are you happy?!" Cato stared, unable to find words. "What? Stop staring like that! _You're_ the one who wanted me to pull the hood down! You don't like my face, do you? I'm too young and you can't look at me without thinking of some son or nephew you have, can you?"

It was none of the above.

Peeta was . . . gorgeous. His skin was pale, the same creamy complexion as the rest of his body. The sharp cut of jaw and high cheekbones made his face look more defined. Two dimples were set into his cheeks, appearing every time his mouth moved as he spoke.

But his eyes were the best.

Two sapphire blue jewels seemed to be where his pupils were supposed to be. The iris' were the deepest blue imaginable. Like every possible shade of the colour were mixed together to become the ultimate blue. Azurite, chrysocolla, turquoise, topaz, tourmaline, cavensite. It looked like the eyes had been genetically altered because there was no way that was a natural colour.

"Are those contacts?" Cato asked in awe.

"No," Peeta said defensively. When he blinked, the long golden lashes that framed his eyes glinted under the lights. "Look, I really should go. I'll see you around." When he moved to turn around, he went over on his ankle and stumbled forward with a yelp. Cato quickly caught him, unable to stop himself from smiling at the boy's clumisness.

Peeta looked at him in alarm, his beautiful blue eyes wide. When Cato met his gaze, he took a risk and leaned forward, tasting his lips for the smallest of moments. He tasted like strawberries and Cato couldn't resist tasting it again. "Are you wearing lip balm?" he asked, amused.

The dancer shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I find that patrons prefer it when I wear lip balm, because it's not as exciting when my lips don't taste of anything."

Cato ran his thumb along Peeta's bottom lip, looking at the small pink smudge that came off on his thumb. "Well, I'm not sure, I think I'll have to try again." He leaned forward and kissed him. Peeta sighed into his mouth, reaching up and cupping Cato's face in his sparkly hands to pull him closer.

"I don't know, it's hard to tell," Cato sniffed. "I can still only taste the strawberry. I think I'd have to try again some other time, maybe when you're not balmed up."

Peeta quirked an eyebrow. "Are you asking me out?"

"Depends, what's your answer?"

"Sorry, I think I missed it, how old are you?"

Cato laughed. "Don't panic, I'm nineteen. I'm not that much older."

"Oh and you still thought it appropriate to make fun of _my_ age then?" Peeta asked, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

"Is that a yes?"

Peeta smirked, the gesture smug and slightly bashful at the same time, "Finnick can give you my number," he said. "But I really must go, it's two songs I've missed now." He shrugged. "Got to make a living somehow."

Cato watched the glittery dancer leave in amazement. Wow, he had spent a lot more money than he thought he had and had actually gotten a date out it. Peeta was certainly an enigma . . . An alluring, mysterious, sexy enigma with a cute, full backside and extraordinary blue eyes.

Yeah, he had definitely gotten more out of Clove's hen-do than he had first expected.

_**7 months later:**_

"Wait up Peeta!"

The younger boy spun on his heel, bouncing up and down like a hyper-active spider monkey. "No!" he replied. "I want to find out if I got it or not!"

Cato shook his head and caught up with his boyfriend, laying a calming hand on his shoulder. "Shimmer down, they're not going anywhere," he laughed. "I'm sure you got it."

Peeta shook his head and grabbed Cato's hand, dragging him up the street. It was strange at first, seeing him outside the strip club and in decent clothing, but it didn't take long for Cato to adjust to it. Peeta suited skinny jeans and tight t-shirts anyway so it didn't matter in hindsight. "You're the one who talked me into doing this, you should be excited to!"

"_I am_ excited," Cato insisted. "Just maybe not as hyper about it as you."

"Come on, faster!" Peeta kept speeding up the closer they got to his house. He was cute when he was excited, like a puppy wagging its tail. "Why did I let you convince me to stay at yours last night?" he wondered out loud.

"Because I knew that if you didn't stay at mine, you'd sit at the top of the stairs all night just so that you didn't miss the mail," Cato pointed out.

Peeta paused as they reached his house, his face thoughtful. "Good point," he concluded.

Instead of struggling with the faulty lock on his garden gate, Peeta vaulted over the fence and ran up his driveway. Cato, not in the same physical shape as his boyfriend (or maybe he was just being lazy), decided to take his chances with the lock on the gate. This held him back considerably and Peeta was already in the house by the time he got it open.

Peeta screamed, running out of the house again while waving the letter in his house like a manaic. "I got in!" he yelled. "I got into the art college!"

"You got in?!" Cato picked Peeta up and spun him round, both of them unable to contain their joy. "Oh my god, I'm so proud of you!"

Peeta pressed the letter against Cato's face. "Look, my name, right there! Peeta Mellark! That's _me_! I'm going to art college!" Cato laughed, batting the letter away so he could see his boyfriend properly. The sun made his blue eyes glitter, almost as much as the sparkly make-up he wore the first time they met.

"Do you think your boss will mind, since you'll probably have to quit stripping?" Cato asked.

Peeta shrugged. "Honestly, right now, I'm too happy to give a damn about what the boss will think," he said. He giggled, as if this were a scandalous thing to say.

"Yeah, screw him," Cato said, making Peeta giggles increase. He leaned forward and captured the younger boy's lips, no longer covered with fruity lipbalm.

His lips tasted like everything. Like his favourite meal, the scent of his sister's duvet covers in the morning, the feel of long walks on the beach, footprints in the sand, the laughter that came with a mis-spoken word, the simplicity of a teabag dropped in hot water, the complexity of trig math, the musty scent of sandal wood, the texture of expensive of wine, the sparks of two soul mates meeting, the explosions of fireworks in the night . . . all in one.

Peeta was everything.

"We need to celebrate," Cato concluded. "We're going to go out tonight, my treat."

Peeta grinned and pushed up on his tiptoes, so his mouth brushed Cato's ear as he spoke. "And then when we get home, I can give you a private show," he purred.

Maybe stripping wasn't that bad an occupation after all.

**A/N: Happy Easter everybody! Hope you enjoy it! :D**


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